


Flesh Wound

by Asynca



Series: Ready, Set, Go! - Speed Prompts [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asynca/pseuds/Asynca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When tending to Pharah's injuries, Mercy realises it must have been a long time since anyone touched her. Speed prompt, written in 68 minutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flesh Wound

 

* * *

She found Pharah's body lying in a puddle in the centre of the dirtiest, darkest laneway in Kings Row, arms and robotic wings outstretched, eyes blank and empty. Blood seeped from the corners of her mouth, and a few unfired rockets spilled out of the open chest of her armour.

Mercy couldn't help herself: she gathered each of the rockets up and placed them neatly back into the sockets of Pharah's chestplate and then closed it. It was part of putting someone back together, wasn't it? Attention to detail was important.

Further down the laneway, the rest of the team were celebrating their victory: whooping, letting off rounds into the sky; here, it was silent. It was such a shame that the _real_ hero of their team couldn't celebrate.

 _Not for long_ , Mercy thought, and raised her hands to the heavens until a glow surrounded Pharah's body. The body shuddered back to life, clutching her throat and _gasping_ for air, wide-eyed and coughing like she was still trying to clear blood from her lungs.

Mercy helped her roll onto her side until she realised there was no longer any blood to cough out. "You're okay now," she repeated softly, like a mantra. "Everything's going to be alright."

Pharah eventually calmed at her voice, staring down at her hands on the muddy cobblestones. Her expression hardened when she saw the many pock-holes in her armour and realised what had happened. She looked away. "I have _failed_."

Mercy couldn't help herself: she chuckled at that. Such conviction. "On the contrary, Fareeha, you did't—"

"—I _died_ when my team most needed me. I _failed_ everyone."

" _Actually_ ," Mercy told her. "You are the reason we were victorious." Pharah didn't look at all like she believed her, so she went on to explain, "It was you shouting from the skies and showering the pavement with rockets that was the distraction the others needed to mount a coordinated attack. While the enemy were shooting at you, we killed every single last one of them."

Pharah's eyes remained averted. There was… _shame_ , there? Mercy didn't expect that; how odd. Such a mixed group of people they had become. "Come," she said, standing out of the puddle and offering a helping hand to Pharah. "Let's get you back to the infirmary and finish patching you up. We'll have you back in the skies in no time."

She had to help the fallen hero to get there there: not for any mechanical reason—the nanotechnology she had developed was much more reliable these days, she very rarely had any mishaps anymore—but because Pharah seemed weary and sore.

The others were probably all getting drunk at a local bar and recounting the moments of triumph while Mercy helped Pharah remove her suit of armour piece by piece, until she was seated on the examination table in her underclothes, skin on display.

She had _so many scars_ ; that was the first thing that Mercy noticed. None of the others had so many; one would almost need to deliberately place themselves directly in the line of fire to have suffered so much. None of the old wounds appeared to have been stitched up too well, either—if they'd even been stitched up at all, that is. Mercy was sure that if Pharah had been in _her_ care, her skin would not be so marked.

There was a fresh gash that had been under the join of her pauldrons that Mercy had the chance to mend, and while she was probing around it to make sure Pharah wasn't hiding any broken bones—soldiers were the _worst_ for concealing the extent of their injuries—she could feel the woman quietly watching her. When she glanced up to smile at her patient, though, those brown eyes darted away; to the floor, to the ceiling, even straight ahead.

She was such a private person, Mercy reflected as she placed a couple of specially formulated nano-bandages over the wound. It would be perfectly healed in no time. "There you are!" she told Pharah. "You'll be good as new overnight!"

Pharah nodded, but her shoulders slumped as Mercy lifted her hands from them. Mercy wondered if she was in pain and not being honest about it— _another_ cursed habit of soldiers—so she thought she'd just probe a little more around the gash to see if there were any particularly tender spots that would indicate muscle damage.

Pharah leant into her touch, and from her silence, Mercy could tell the wound was simply on the surface. Her patient spoke, finally. "Is that the only one?"

Mercy could clearly see it was, and Pharah could almost certainly _feel_ it was, but the insistence in her voice that Mercy should check her over held a note of quiet desperation. Mercy recognised it; patients who were rarely touched were like this: they never wanted the exam to end. All humans longed for contact, and it must have been a long time since caring hands had touched Pharah.

A healer, that struck Mercy to her heart. How lonely this fine woman must be.

She wouldn't normally indulge a patient so much, but for this one she did: she took off her gloves—"I can feel detail better without them," she fibbed—and checked every muscle, every inch of Pharah's exposed skin for fictional tears and bruises. She pretended to clean old scratches, pretended to need to probe particularly knotted muscles, until Pharah's eyes were closed and her hard expression had peacefully softened.

Mercy felt a surge of affection for her. This woman had never needed so much for someone to take care of her. "I'll protect you better next time," she promised. "I won't leave your side until I'm sure you're safe."

Pharah's eyes opened a little—staring blankly at the linoleum floor. "Thank you," she murmured. "But you should save your energy for those who most _need_ it." 'Need' didn't seem to be the right word; and the way Pharah's lips turned on it, Mercy heard 'deserve'.

What had happened to this woman, she wondered, that would make her speak in such a way about herself? "We've all done things we regret, Fareeha," she said gently, watching her patient _flinch_ at the suggestion. "I took an oath to do no harm, and yet I've murdered people. We do what we must."

"I know," Pharah said defensively, but there was pain in her voice. "But still: save your energy. I will ensure I don't need to _drain_ you again."

"Oh, please," she told Pharah with a smile, and then inadvertently found herself stroking a thumb over the tattoo on Pharah's cheek. "It's my pleasure to be of assistance to you."

Those brown eyes looked up at her for just a moment: in them, she could see _so_ much pain. The doctor in her _longed_ with every fibre of her being to ease it.

"Thank you," Pharah repeated, her lips barely moving.

Mercy had realised she'd been watching them so closely until that moment; she found that detail surprising. Or maybe not so surprising, after all; she'd always had a weakness for stoic types. "My pleasure," she said, meaning it. "Now, shall we join the others? I think everyone needs to hear about the moment you saved us all and delivered us victory!"

Pharah smile a little at that, and let Mercy help her up and back into her armour before the two of them went in search of the rest of their team to enjoy their hard-fought victory.


End file.
